Because I’ve had little to whistle about until now.
“I suppose I must be in good spirits,” Sybil admitted, helping herself to eggs and toast.
“Any particular reason?” Rosalie’s eyes sparkled with curiosity. “You’ve seemed rather… contemplative since you and Papa returned from London.”
Contemplative. Such a diplomatic way to describe my recent mood.
“Your father and I spent yesterday afternoon establishing an herb garden,” Sybil said, surprised by the warmth that crept into her voice at the memory. “I find gardening quite… restorative.”
“How lovely! Papa mentioned something about purchasing plants though he was rather cryptic about the details.” Rosalie leaned forward with interest. “What sorts of herbs are you growing?”
“Medicinal ones, mostly. Chamomile, lavender, comfrey…” Sybil found herself describing their selections with enthusiasm, her hands gesturing as she spoke. “By midsummer, we should have enough variety to prepare most common remedies.”
“How practical of you both,” Rosalie said warmly. “Though I must say, you’re absolutely glowing this morning. Gardening clearly agrees with you.”
Glowing.Was she? Sybil caught her reflection in the silver teapot and was startled to see that Rosalie was right—her cheeks were flushed with color, her eyes bright with an animation she hadn’t felt in months.
It wasn’t just the gardening, though, was it? It was the way Hugo looked at you when he brushed that dirt from your cheek. The way his touch lingered just a moment longer than necessary…
Heat crept up her neck at the memory. The gentle pressure of his thumb against her skin, the intensity in his amber eyes, the way she’d found herself leaning into his touch like a flower seeking sunlight…
“Sybil?” Rosalie’s voice seemed to come from very far away. “Are you quite all right? You’ve gone rather pink.”
“Have I?” Sybil pressed her hands to her cheeks, feeling the telltale warmth there. “It must be the tea. It’s rather hot this morning.”
Liar. You’re thinking about your husband’s hands on your face and wondering what it would feel like if he touched you like that again.
The realization sent another wave of heat through her, and she quickly took a large gulp of tea to cover her embarrassment.
“Indeed,” came a familiar deep voice from the doorway. “The morning does seem unusually… warm.”
Hugo entered the breakfast room with his characteristic unhurried grace though Sybil noticed his amber eyes fixed immediately on her face. Something in his expression suggested he’d been observing her for longer than she’d realized, taking in her flushed cheeks and the way her fingers worried at her teacup.
How long has he been standing there? What did he see?
“Good morning, Papa,” Rosalie said brightly. “Sybil was just telling me about your gardening expedition yesterday. How romantic of you to surprise her with an herb garden.”
“Romantic?” Hugo’s eyebrow arched as he settled into his chair, though his gaze never left Sybil’s face. “I’d hardly call horticulture romantic.”
“Wouldn’t you?” Rosalie’s tone was innocently teasing. “Planning a surprise outing based on someone’s personal interests, working together to create something beautiful… it sounds quite romantic to me.”
Stop talking, Rosalie. Please, for the love of all that’s holy, stop talking.
“I’m sure your father had purely practical motivations,” Sybil said quickly though she could feel Hugo’s attention like a physical weight. “Having fresh herbs available will benefit the entire household.”
“Practical,” Hugo repeated, his voice holding that familiar note of dry amusement. “Yes, I’m famously practical in all my endeavors.”
Why does he say it like that? As though there’s some hidden meaning I’m missing?
Sybil risked a glance at him and immediately regretted it. His amber eyes held that knowing look she was beginning to recognize—the one that suggested he could read thoughts she didn’t even realize she was having.
Does he know what I was thinking about? Can he tell that I was remembering…
Almost without conscious thought, her tongue darted out to wet her suddenly dry lips. It was a nervous gesture, nothing more,but she saw the exact moment Hugo’s gaze dropped to her mouth.
The temperature in the room seemed to rise by several degrees.
Hugo’s eyes lingered on her lips for a heartbeat longer than propriety allowed before returning to meet her gaze. The corner of his mouth curved in what might have been a smile though it held far too much masculine satisfaction to be entirely innocent.
